Psych You Out in the End
by Tzadikim
Summary: "Don't be such a downer, Harry. This is going to be wicked!" Ron decides to start a psychic detective business. AU Based off of Psych.


**AN: I've had this in my mind for a while. This is a strange AU with no Voldemort so far, Harry in Slytherin, and an alive James Potter. This may also be continued on a later date whenever I want to write it. All ships will be eventually canon.**

**This is short because I'm tired. Sorry, but there's more on the way.**

**Episodic chapters, here we go!**

**Disclaimer**: Last time I checked I am an American, sarcastic, and fun-sized. Nice try, but I know that I'm not JK Rowling. And I know that you know that I'm not the creator of Psych.

**Title**: Pilot: Part One

**Word Count**:1K

**Summary**: "Don't be such a downer, Harry. This is going to be wicked!" Ron decides to start a psychic detective business. AU

* * *

_Six years ago…_

* * *

Harry's dad was bloody cool!

Ron didn't know why his best mate complained, but he couldn't find any faults for having an Auror for a dad. That was much cooler than what his did in Muggle Relations. Harry's got to put away Dark wizards and wear a bloody awesome outfit, and he knew all of those wicked spells.

The three of him were at a Muggle pub, and Ron was fascinated with watching everything. He never been in an environment like this, and the food smelled effing fantastic, but that could be blamed on Mr Potter being a so-so cook. Ron also might as well been drooling when he saw the pies come out. Harry, too.

"Close your eyes, boys," Mr Potter instructed.

"But, Dad," Harry said, his face oddly flushed. "Do you really have to?"

Ron looked curiously at the father and son, sensing something. "Have to what?"

Mr Potter raked a hand through his hair just like Harry did, and sighed. "This is a simple exercise. If you want to be an Auror—"

"I don't," interrupted Harry. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. Ron fiddled with his fork, he hated being stuck in scenarios like this. Too bloody awkward for his liking.

Mr Potter continued smoothly. "If you want to be an Auror, you have to be observant of your surroundings. Now close your eyes." Harry mumbled something but complied. Ron did the same under Mr Potter's stern look. "How many hats are in the pub?"

Ron's eyes were shut, but he was tempted to take a quick peek. "Do I really have to answer this?" Harry asked. "This isn't fair for Ron, Dad."

Ron tapped his finger and imagined the pub. He saw a laughing couple behind him, the chef glaring at the waitress, some blokes near his age…"Five."

"Three," Harry said. They opened their eyes to see Mr Potter's reaction.

"Wrong, both of you," and he idly read over the menu. "There's six." He then pointed over to each person without looking at them. "Lady in red with the sunhat, chef sending everyone a glare, fisherman in the corner nursing a bitter, waitress near the door, guy in the blue behind us, and—"

"But he took his hat off," Ron said without thinking. He looked over his shoulder to see the guy in a blazer talking into a slap of colourful metal. There was a baseball cap sticking out of his pocket. "See?"

* * *

_In-between the line there's a lot of obscurity…_

* * *

Ron wanted to offer the Auror a breath mint, but the glare was too much.

Instead he settled for tapping his fingers on the tabletop. He was aiming for a Celestina Warbeck song that he couldn't get out of his head at the moment, but he couldn't get the tune just right. His bored, blue eyes flickered over the small room. Out of spite, he lazily looked over the Auror.

Tall, pale, and silent was a twitchy sort. He left eye kept spazzing out, and his right thumb wouldn't stop moving. There were tea stains on his crooked tie and some dark smudges near the edge of the sleeve of his robe. His name badge read 'Dawlish' but Ron preferred 'Doltish'.

"Well?" Doltish said. He leaned his weight over the table to leer at Ron. Unfortunately, the redhead was now able to smell the eaten tuna sandwich. "How did you do it, Weasley?"

"Do what?" Ron inched back to give himself some breathing space. "I thought I was going to the money that I earned from you know—doing your job."

Doltish's nostrils flared, and Ron was reminded of a cow somehow. "Weasley, somehow you've been solving these cases, and we would like to know how."

"You got me." Ron raised his hands up in defence, and smiled what he hoped was charming. The Weasley family was known for it. "I'm actually doing all of those bad, bad things."

"Is that a confession?"

Ron felt his mouth drop. "I—what? No! I mean, I use the wireless. Lee Jordan's hilarious with his Quidditch commentary, and all of the reports are aired on the same station."

Doltish raised an eyebrow. "That's it? You expect me to believe that a wizard who's barely of age has been able to solve top-priority crimes through a bloody wireless?!"

"Would you like tea leaves instead? Not my fault that you lot bugger up every now and then. Though, that's not entirely true, I sometimes like to listen to station five, the weather girl has a beautiful voice," Ron said. His moment of glory was then shattered when Doltish spoke again.

"You're lying. You can't read guilt off of someone's voice."

Ron inwardly gulped and sunk lower down his seat. That was a bit hard to do with his tall and lanky frame. "Hey, now, just because you're having a rotten day doesn't mean that you have to take it out on poor me."

Doltish sneered, and it actually gave him a vaguely imposing look. "Weasley, you got ten seconds before I lock you up for something."

Ron's mind flashed to his mum's reaction if she found out that he was arrested. He'd be twice dead when released. "I—"

"Ten."

"C'mon!"

"Nine."

"Oi, just give me a moment here to collect myself."

"Eight."

Ron had to think quick or it would be the end for him. Curtains closed, lights out, all the joy and happiness suck out as he shared a cell with the notorious Mundungas Fletcher. His mum was going to effing kill him, and hell, he was going to make her cry. But what could he say when the sod wouldn't stop counting backwards?

"Seven."

Then an epiphany struck him like getting smacked by a bludger.

"Six."

"I'm a psychic!" Ron blurted out.

Doltish stopped speaking and blinked slowly as if Ron suggested that they should have a tea party with the Giant Squid in tutus. "Get—him—out—of—here!"


End file.
